LIB RARY OF^NGR ESS. 



"'^t¥^- 



1.7.3 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



SONGS 

From the Seasons 

AND OTHER VERSES 



SONGS 

From the Seasons 



And Other Verses 



DEXTER CARLETON WASHBURN 



i^econti €tiition 




ST. JOHNSBURY 
CHARLES T. WALTER 

1888 




\\^-~^- 






COPYRIGHT, 1857, BY 
CHARLES T. WALTER 



Caledonia County Publishing Company. 
The Republican Press, St. Johnsbury, Vt. 



PREFACE. 

npHE enjoyment the author has taken in com- 
-■■ posing these Songs, and the pleasure they 
might give his friends, have been his only 
reasons for writing them ; the hope that they 
may give to their readers, in some degree, a 
similar pleasure, is his only excuse for publish- 
ing them. 

Some of these verses have never appeared in 
type before ; several of them have been pub- 
lished in St. Nicholas, Outing, The Cottage 
Hearth, Literary Life, and other magazines and 
periodicals. 

D. c. w. 

CHRISTMAS, l8S6. 



NOTE. 

Some slight changes have been made in the 
present edition, and a few verses added. 

D. c. w, 

CHRISTMAS, 1887. 



CONTENTS. 
I 

SONGS FROM THE SEASONS. 

WINTER: 

PAGE 

A Christmas Carol . . . ic 

A Christmas Wish . . . .16 

A Valentine . . . . . \h 

My Little Saint , . . . .18 

Horace^ Book I. Ode IX . . 21 
Sweeping out the School-House Floor 23 

Last Night 25 

The Lamplighter . . . '27 

Tableaux ...... 20 

SPRING: 

Easter Morning , . . . • 3'^ 

Sunday Morning • • • • 34 

Elizabeth . . . . . . '^6 

J^ Blotter 2y1 

>« 40 

The Songs I do ?iot Sing . . ai 



lo SONGS FROM THE SEASONS. 

SUMMER: 

Down by the Brook . . . -44 

Daisies ...... 46 

Lines ^ Written on a Birch- Bark Cup 47 

A Letter 48 

My Tennis Hat . . . . -So 

My Polo Cap 51 

A UTUMN: 

A7i Autumn Hymn . . • • 55 

Blowers ...... 56 

Inspiration . . . . . '58 

A Cloudy Mornijig in the Country . 60 

The Angelus Bell . . . .62 

A Birthday Wish .... 64 

Ode for the night before a birthday . 65 

II 

OTHER VERSES. 

Just a Society Girl • • • • 73 

Saint Valentine^ s Day . . -77 

With a MS, Book .... 79 

Lost Youth . . . . . .81 

Evening on the Harbor • • . 83 

Baby's Socks . . . . '85 



CONTENTS, II 

Easter Day ..... 87 

Cards ....... 89 

Echo ...... 91 

No Go ....... 92 

A. Remembrance . . . . 9'? 

Remembrances . . . . .95 

M^/^r 97 

77{)/ Ode . . . . . .98 

Fetters . . . . . .100 

'-''Sweet CaporaV . . . .103 

A Puff of Smoke .... 105 

The Seasons . . . . .107 

The Poet and the Singer . . 109 

Life's Day . . . . . .114 

Colors . . . . . . 1 1 15 

Chivalry . . . . . . 116 

I Wonder . . . . .117 



I 
SONGS FROM THE SEASONS 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 15 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

]\ /TERRILY ring the Christmas chimes, 
^^ ^ As they merrily rang in the olden times ; 
For hearts grown sad and heads grown gray 
Are young once more on Christmas-day. 

Cheerily blazes the Christmas fire 

On the old stone hearth, as the flames mount 

higher ; 
For children that long have learned to stray 
Come home again on Christmas-day. 

Joyously echoes the Christmas song 

Of youthful voices, clear and strong ; 

For "Peace on Earth, good-will" was given 

To the sons of men from the Son of Heaven. 



i6 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS. 



A CHRISTMAS WISH. 

1\ /FAY the Christmas chime 

^^ ^ Bring a thought of the time 

When the heavens rangf with a sono^ sublime. 

Though the closing year 
Be dark and drear, 
May the new one dawn on you bright and clear 



A VALENTINE, 17 



A VALENTINE. 

i<T 1 7HO is your Valentine?" asked she : 
^ ^ "A dainty maiden," answered he. 

''Of course ; but is she fair?" said she : 
''As fair as your own self," quoth he. 

"And are her eyes bright?" still asked she : 
"I' faith, they are my stars," said he. 

"What may I tell her by?" said she : 
"The dimple in her cheek," spoke he. 

"I have one, too ; what else ?" laughed she : 
"Her maiden's heart, so true," quoth he. 

"Oh, pshaw ! who is this maid ?" cried she : 
"You are my Valentine," said he. 



i8 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS, 



MY LITTLE SAINT. 

T TER picture stands here in my study, 
■^ ^ On a shelf, by an overgrown book, 
Where the curtain, drawn back from the window, 
Makes just the right kind of a nook — 

For a Saint who appears somewhat worldly, 
With her kids, and her velvet, and furs, 

And a Gainsborough hat, and whose tresses 
Are as stylishly "frizzled" as hers. 

Of course it is only a picture, — 

And fancy at that : but who cares ! 

And the legend below, "Come and kiss me," 
Isn't what a Saint usually bears : 

But still I have made her the patron 
Of all that I write, say, or do : — 

I call her "Saint Dimple Cheek," — really 
I think that sounds classic, don't you? 



MT LITTLE SAINT. 19 

And here, through the long winter evenings, 
As I sit with my papers and books. 

Leaning back in my low wooden rocker. 
My little saint smilingly looks. 

And here, every evening, my candle, 

(And the papershade, too, sometimes,) burns, 

On my little saint's dim, curtained altar. 
Till her hair to a bright halo turns. 

But still ril confess that the worship 

I pay, is not wholly unmixed ; 
In fact, that quite often upon her 

'Tis my eyes, not my thoughts, that are fixed. 

And, that, as the faithful believer 
Who kneels by an image to pray. 

Prays not to the image, but worships 
The spirit it figures, alway : — 

So I, at my little saint's altar. 

See not there the face in her niche, 

But smilingly think of another 

Just such a demure little witch,— 



20 SOJVGS FROM THE SEASONS, 

Who once said the picture was ''pretty," 
And then, of course, had to demur. 

When I acquiesced promptly, and hinted 
I thought it was very like her. 

Well, wxll, I must be at my reading, 
Not sitting here wasting my time : 

She would laugh, — and — well, just to amuse her, 
I think I must send her my rhyme ! 



HORA CE—BOOK /. ODE IX. 21 



HORACE — BOOK I. ODE IX. 

OEE Soracte's dazzling glow, 
*^ Covered deep in virgin snow^ ! 
While the laboring forests stand 
Bowing to the grateful land ; 
And the river's glistening band 
Is congealed. 

Banish cold ! and on the hearth 
Pile the logs with social mirth : 
Thaliarchus, draw the wine, 
Mellowed on the Sabine vine ; 
And in ancient jar of thine 
Lonor concealed. 



Trust the gods with all thy cares : 
They the storm-winds, w^aging wars 
With the billows dark and cold, 
Will control, and safe withhold, 
Cypress tall nor ashes old 
To disturb. 



SONGS FROM THE SEASONS. 

What to-morrow'8 grief shall be 
Strive not ere the time to see : 
If to Fortune thou should'st climb 
Count it so much gained of Time ; 
Neither Youth's romantic rhyme 
Try to curb. 

Ere old age comes, all too soon, 
Beat the dance to jovial tune : 
Seek the green, and gayly rove 
Midst soft murmurings of love. 
While the tw^ilight stars above 
Mark the hour. 

Hear the maid's betraying laugh, 
By the wall concealed but half ! 
Seize a love-pledge from her hand. 
Or her w^hite arm's golden band : 
See her, laughing, coyly stand 
In your power ! 



THE SCHOOL-HOUSE FLOOR. 23 



SWEEPING OUT THE SCHOOL-HOUSE 
FLOOR. 

T'D dismissed the "class in spelling" 
^ Qiiite a little while before, 
And we'd just gone through our "parsing" 
As the short hand got to four. 

Then the "big girls" started homeward, 
Chatting round the open door ; 

But I stayed and helped Miss 'Villa 

While she swept the school-house floor. 

Down the aisles our busy brooms went, 

And the dirt flew out before, 
Till we made a mammoth dust-heap 

Just behind the entry door. 

And I told her how we students 

Managed things at "Thirty-four," — 

Once a term we made the bed up, 

And the next term swept the floor ! 



24 SOJVGS FROM THE SEASONS, 

While our hands and tongues were busy, 
As I glanced the benches o'er, 

''What a pretty maiden," thought I, 

" Sweeping out the school-house floor ; " 

"Such plump arms and graceful ankles. 

Faith, I never saw before ; 
Bless me, isn^t this romantic, 

Sweeping out the school-house floor ! " 

Then she bade me bring the dust-pan. 
Hanging up behind the door ; 

And expertly swept the dirt in, 
While I held it on the floor. 

Then she quickly tied her hood on. 

While I locked the school-house door. 

And I left her at the corner, — 

Thus we swept the school-house floor ! 



LAST NIGHT. 25 



LAST NIGHT. 

TT was here that we were standing 
^ In the party's whirl, last night ; 
Leaning on the polished newel, 
As it shone beneath the light. 

And I laughed, and called him ''silly" 
To be talking so, right here : 

He could call on me some evening, 
In, — perhaps, — well — say a year ! 

But I felt a twinge of conscience 
As I left him standing there, 

With his face so sad and weary. 
And that earnest, thoughtful air. 

Then, to-night, this train disaster ! 

All the evening paper's filled 
With those cruel "press dispatches:"— 

His name's in the list of "killed." 



26 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS. 

Oh, if I could but have known it 
When he spoke to me last night, 

I'd have answered him in earnest. 
Not in words so hard and light. 

There ! do hear it ! it's a caller, — 

Oh, I ca7i't see one to-night ! 
I have stood here thinking, dreaming 

Till my hair's a perfect fright. 

Oh, I'm caught, — I hear them coming I — 
I'm not in, James, — see my head ! 

J/r. Who ^ James What? Tom Fielding? — 
Hush, man, — don't you know? — he's dead. 

^'Not quite dead yet?" — Oh, Tom Fielding, 

Is it really you, — alive? 
''Just escaped.^ — with one arm broken? — 

You were one of only five ? 

May you make your call this evening? " 

It was here last night, at ten, 
I said No : but, — don't you really 

Think its been a year since then? 



THE LAMPLIGHTER. 27 



THE LAMPLIGHTER. 

T IP here in my room 
^^ Where the evening gloom 
Is thickening the shadows fast, 
I sit by the side 
Of my window wide, 
As the snow goes whirling past. 

Each shadowy fold 
That the curtains hold 

Is lost in the deepening shades ; 
And familiar things 
Take fanciful wings 

As the waning twilight fades. 

Outside, and below. 

The drifting snow 
Goes whirling and eddying round ; 

And the wintry blast 

Is whistling past 
With a weird and ghostly sound. 



2S SOJVGS FROM THE SEASONS. 

But up the street, 

With shuffling feet, 
Comes the lamplighter's muffled form ; 

The ruddy light 

Of his torch-lamp bright 
Gleams red through the driving storm. 

But a moment is lost 
As he stops by the post, 

Then he trudges along up the hill ; 
But the flickering glare 
That his torch left there 

Through the storm is brightening still. 

And well for me, 

I think, would it be, 
As I toil up life's stormy hill. 

If I could but light 

Some beacon bright 
In the storm, that should brighten still. 



TABLEAUX. 29 



TABLEAUX. 

1\ /TY sweet little nun, with the soft, pretty face, 
iVX Forgive me, I pray, but your black hood's 

white border 
And your ribbons show there ; — may I put them 

in place, 
Without breaking the rules of your sisterhood's 

order ? 
There, that is just right, — so the kerchief will 

show 
Inside of your nun's hood, or whatever this is ; 
But, Santa Maria ! why, this never'll do, — 
Don't you know. Sister Martha, black nuns don't 

wear frizzes ? 

I really am shocked at such folly and sin ; 

Let me brush them back, so, from your fore- 
head and temples ; 

O, dear, now you've pulled the hood ofl' from 
your chin ; 

s 



30 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS. 

Whoever did see a black nun with such dim- 
ples ! 

You really must let your hood cover them, so. 

Look meek, — now look down, — there, that's 
perfect ! — "you'll smother?" 

But other black nuns have been roasted, you 
know ; 

'Tis but little to have a silk handkerchief bother. 

Look as though you were thinking of all your 
bad deeds ; 

But here, what is this? — you must cover that 
locket. 

And those rings on your hand. "Must be tell- 
ing your beads ? " 

Well, then, off with them, quick ; here they go, 
in my pocket. 

And now let me see how you'll walk; — very 
slow ; 

Ah! that w^as well done; and — but here, stop 

that switching ! 
And if you could manage to be, — well, you 

know. 
To be just a little less,— O, less bewitching, — 



TABLEAUX. 31 

'Twould be better, I think. But what's this that 

you say? — 
''Don't believe you can learn? Let them go on 

without you?" — 
My dear Sister Martha, now don't pout that 

way ; 
You know I don't mention the good things about 

you. 

She has gone through the archway, — the scene 
has begun : 

What a lucky chap he who may ever possess 
her ; 

r faith, if there was such a fair little nun 

It would be a hard chance for her Father Con- 
fessor. 

I fear it would scatter his Latin and Greek 

If he once caught a glimpse of the sweet little 
sister. 

What a rumpus she'd make ! Ere she'd been 
there a week, 

I'd swear every monk in the convent had kissed 
her ! 



32 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS, 

l'envoy. 

Well, that was last night, and the tableaux are 
done ; 

But still, as I take down the stage and the awn- 
ing, 

The thought of my sweet-faced, demure little 
nun 

Brings a smile to my lips in the midst of my 
yawning. 



EASTER MORNING. 33 



EASTER MORNING. 

"T^ELICATE perfumes, faint and rare, 

^^ Floating like dreams in the soft spring air ; 

Radiant lilies, pure and white. 

Opening their hearts in the morning light : 

Glorious beams from the Easter sun : 
Glorious news from the Risen One. 



34 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS. 



T 



SUNDAY MORNING. 

HROUGH the painted, pictured windows. 
Comes a flood of mellow light. 
Warming up the shadowy transepts 
With its colors rich and bright. 



And from out the distant chancel 
Comes the service floating down, 

As the preacher slowly reads it 
In his rustling stole and gown. 

But my thoughts are sadly wandering 
From the solemn and the grand ; 

And I scarcely keep the places 

Through the prayer-book in my hand. 

For there sits a dainty maiden 

Just across the long straight aisle, 

With a pious little look on, 

And a most bewitching smile. 



SUNDAY MORNING. 35 

And she sings like Saint Cecilia, 

Till the roof the music feels, 
And the sombre oaken rafters, 

As the chants the organ peals. 

And, at last, the service ended 

With a burst of rapturous song, 

From the pulpit comes a sermon, — 
Strange, I find it none too long ! 

Then the peaceful benediction. 

And the organ swells once more : 

While without the porch I linger 
Till I meet her at the door. 



36 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS, 



ELIZABETH. 

T ASHES long, o'er laughing eyes 
^-^ Vainly trying to look wise ; 
Fragrance like a flower's breath, — 
Sweet, demure Elizabeth. 

Dimpled cheek and rosy ear. 
With the brown hair rippling near. 
Where the shadow deepeneth, — 
Witching, coy Elizabeth. 

Small red lips and rounded chin 
Just above her cameo-pin. 
Moving gently with her breath, — 
Bonnie, fair Elizabeth. 

Tiny foot that peepeth out 
From beneath her petticoat ; 
Ribbon bright that glisteneth,— 
Dainty-robed Elizabeth. 



MT BLOTTER. 37 



MY BLOTTER. 

'nplS a dark, stormy night, and it's fast grow- 
•^ ing late ; 

Outside the fog's thick, — the pane's drip- 
ping with water : 
But in here my fire burns bright in the grate, 
While I lazily lean o'er my work, on my 
blotter. 

Ah, Jennie, my friend, when your mind has 
been pinned 
Down to Logic all day, till 3^our brain seems 
to totter. 
What a pleasure it is to fling books to the wind, 
And a moment to lean with your arm on 
your blotter ! 

And, Jennie, my friend, do you s'pose I can find. 
In this queer, jostling world, where each one 
is a plotter. 



38 SOJVGS FROM THE SEASONS, 

Some fair, dainty maiden, whose heart and 
whose mind 
Are as pure as the soft, creamy folds of my 
blotter? 

Will her smile be as bright, and her heart be as 
true 
As this little bluebird? And her thought 
without spot, or 
A shade of deceit? Will her eyes be as blue 
As the jaunty gay ribbon you tied on my 
blotter ? 

Will her throat be as soft, and as white as the 
snow, 
And her breath be as fragrant as roses' sweet 
otter?— 
(The deuce, though, there goes a great blot on 
this, now ! 
However, you know it was made for a 
blotter,^ 

Do you think I will find her? Ah, well, if 1 do 
Come across, in my travels, some day, this 
fair daughter. 



MT BLOTTER, 



39 



I'll lay my heart down at her feet. Let you know 
If I meet with success, by a note, from my 
blotter. 



40 SOJVGS FROM THE SEASONS. 



JEN. 

A JAUNTY white hat, of outrageous size ; 
^^^ And a pair of those mischievous jet-black 

eyes 
That were made to bewilder the sons of men ; 
And the sauciest moutli in the world : — that's 
Jen. 

A slim, lithe form, full of girlish grace, 
And the most provokingly pretty face 
That ever made one turn rouiid again 
To look at it twice on the street : — that's Jen. 

From the soft white muslin around her throat 
To the snow-white edge of her petticoat 
You just catch a glimpse of now and then, 
An irresistible dashy — that's Jen. 

A graceful ankle, and tiny foot. 
Encased in a dainty Dongola boot ; 
And an indescribable style, — but then. 
You can't tell how a pretty girl looks ; — that's 
Jen. 



THE SONGS I DO NOT SING. 41 



THE SONGS I DO NOT SING. 

nnHEY come to me in my waking, 

■^ In the cold, still midnight air : 
They come in the week-day labor, 

They come in the solemn prayer. 
They come to me in my reading, 

When the lamp burns dim and low : 
They come to me under the gas-light, 

When the music is dreamy and slow. 

They come to me in my letters, 

Though they never were written there ; 
They come from the blue-eyed maiden. 

With the lock of her golden hair. 
And I heard one of infinite sweetness 

By the side of a funeral pall ; 
And one that I heard in a ball-room 

Was the saddest one of all. 

They come like the inspirations 

That came to the pro2:)hets of old ; 



42 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS. 

And they seem like a half-blown rose-bud, 

Just ready to burst and unfold. 
And I catch my breath at the sweetness 

Of its odor within my breast ; 
But I sigh for the measureless beauty 

That never can be expressed. 

And I think, " When the day is over, — 

When the w^ork and the care are done, — 
I will sing this song in the gloaming. 

To gladden some weary one." 
But when I go home, in the twilight. 

There are other things I must do ; 
And I get no time for the singing 

Until after the evening is through. 

And so I go on without singing 

The songs I have felt and heard ; 
While of all their beauty and sweetness. 

The world knows never a word. 
And I say, " It is wrong to keep them, 

For they do not belong to you ; — 
You are only the harp in the window 

For the breath of the wind to blow through." 



THE SONGS I DO NOT SING, 43 

And they make, with their heavenly rhythm, 

The poor little songs I have sung 
Seem harsh as the jangled chiming 

When the bells are backward rung. 
But still the days go without singing, 

Till at last the songs fade, one by one ; 
And all I can do, as they vanish. 

Is to sigh for the songs that are gone. 



44 SOJVGS FROM THE SEASONS. 



DOWN BY THE BROOK. 

T'M down by the brook, Jennie, under the trees, 
-■- Where we used to read in the shade ; 
While the stream babbled by, on its old black- 
ened rocks, 
And the light o'er your sun-bonnet played. 
And the red moss that growls on the slippery 
stones 
Has the same graceful, feathery look ; 
And the w^illows that bend from the bank, up 
above. 
Are still dipping their leaves in the brook. 

The dry grass still growls in the w^eather-stained 
cracks. 
And the golden-rod bends by the ledge ; 
And the foam eddies past, just the same, on the 
stream. 
And the bushes are skirting its edge. 



DOWN BT THE BROOK. 45 

The old seat is still here, with its moss-cush- 
ioned back, 

But somehow it isn't the same : 
And the noise of the brook has a different sound. 

And seems to be whispering your name. 

And so I've been lying here, Jen, half asleep. 

With the leaves and the sun on my book. 
And wondering what made it so different then. 

When you were down here by the brook. 
And after I've looked at the matter all through. 

With my hat tipped down over my face, 
I've reached the conclusion at last, cousin Jen, 

It wasj^^<9^^ that I liked, not the place. 

7 



46 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS. 



DAISIES. 

' T 1 7iCH man, poor man, beggar man, sief ' — 

^^ Wait till I tell 'ou what 'ou'll be ; — 
' Doctor, lawyer, Inzun shief,' 

'Ou couldn't be zat one, don't 'ou see? 

' Wich man, poor man, beggar man, sief — 
Aren't 'ou glad it isn't zat one ? 

' Doctor, lawyer, Inzun shief,' — 

Wait a minute, I's almost done. 

' Wich man' — zats the lastest one. 

So zat is w^hat 'ou's doing to be. 

'Wich man, poor man, beggar man, sief — 
I dess I must see who'll marry me ; 

' Doctor, lawyer, Inzun shief,' 

Who do 'ou 'spose it's doing to be? 

' Wich man ' — why, it tums ze same ! 

I doesn't see how zat can be ! — 
O, 'es, I does, — it's dest as plain^ — 

O' course it means '^^^'/Z marry ;;?^." 



LINES. 



47 



LINES, 

WRITTEN ON A BIRCH-BARK CUP. 

/CRYSTAL cup or golden goblet 
^^ Were not for your lips too fair ; 
Yet this little birchen dipper 

Claims at least one virtue rare : 
For before your ruby lip 
O'er its raveled edge did dip, 

On the mountain streamlet's bank, 
From it never mortal drank. 



4S SONGS FROM THE SEASONS, 



A LETTER. 

^1 TE'RE up at the cottage, Jen^ spending a 
^ ^ week ; 

Aunt Hattie and Mamie are here : 
The breeze is as fresh on the lake as it was 

That day you were up here last year ; 
We wear our old clothes in the same reckless 
way 

All day long, — ''sans disgrace et sans fear" ; 
I feel the old lazy, luxurious ease ; 

But, Jen, — O, I wish you w^ere here ! 

The ripples still break on the sand by the beach, 
And the boat's keel still grates on the stones ; 
The hammock still swings 'neath the trees in the 
grove, 
And we still pelt each other with cones : 
The golden-rod still grows as bright by the road, 
And the "natives" still prowl 'round as 
near ; 



A LETTER. 49 

Our wet bathing-suits are still spread in the 
sun, — 
O, Jen, — but I wish you were here ! 

The maple trees stand by the rail, as of old, 

And their branches bend low o'er the rocks ; 
And the same mingled sunshine and shade from 
their leaves 
vStill flecks the veranda's broad walks ; 
We still eat our dinners from forks with two 
tines. 
As we did that day up here last year. 
When I helped you to salad five times in one 
meal, — 
O, Jen, — well, I wish you were here ! 



so SOJVGS FROM THE SEASONS, 



MY TENNIS HAT. 

TRIOLET. 

HE wore my tennis hat that day, 
^ As she stood there beside the net ; 

And Hebe could not match the way 
She wore my tennis hat that day : 

1 hear her still, call '' Love All —Play ! " 
But though she played against me, — yet 
She wore my tennis hat that day, 

As she stood there beside the net ! 



Mr POLO CAP, 51 



MY POLO CAP. 

TT is faded and worn, and the weather 
^ Has turned it a rather dull red ; 
But I have the old feeling of freedom 
When I put it round here on my head. 

It brings back those sets of Lawn Tennis 
Kate Harding and I used to play ; 

And how she would get the ''advantage " 
In a most unaccountable way. 

I wore it that day at the races, 

When we paddled in second-best, 

While Gordon led off by two boat-lengths 
And we were as far from the rest. 

And then, on that last Friday evening. 

When I came back from yachting with Ray 

And knew I must leave Monday morning. 
As college commenced the next day ; — 



52 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS. 

How, when I called over at " Edgemere," 
I found Jen was up at the lake 

For a week, — when I'd just left the fellows 
And pawned my last day for her sake. 

Next morning I started to tramp it. 
With shot-gun and rod for excuse ; 

And Madge took me up in her dog-cart 
As far as the road was in use. 

And then I had eight miles of tramping ; 

But somehow it didn't seem long, 
As I gave a fresh tip to my polo. 

And whistled an old college song. 

Ah, that afternoon, I remember. 
As I sat on the rocks at her side, — 

Just far enough oft^ from the cottage, 
While Fan kept discreetly aside, — 

How I told Jen of all my love-troubles, — 
How Flo and I'd broken, — '' for good " : 

And she gave advice like a Mentor, 
And scolded me out of my '' mood." 



Mr POLO CAP. 53 

And then how I made that old boat go, 
As we rowed down the lake to the mills ; 

While the water reflected the sunset 
That was fading out, over the hills. 

Then we waited and let the Professor 
Overtake us, at last, in his birch. 

And I got aboard like a greenhorn. 
And gave him a terrible lurch. 

And then I watched Jen turn the boat round, 
And the water and sunset-tints blend : 

And looked back and waved my old polo 
As we paddled the birch round the bend. 

And the long homeward tramp in the evening. 
And what I was thinking of then ; — 

The present, the past, and the future, — 
The lake, and the day, and of Jen. 

And as I strode on down the roadside, 
With the dew and the dust on my shoes, 

I low squarely I braced up my shoulders, 
No one but my old polo knows. 

s 



54 SOJVGS FROM THE SEASONS. 

Well, that was my last tramp that summer, - 
All summers must come to an end ; 

But still, when I put on my polo 
It seems like an old, trusted friend. 



AN AUTUMN HYMN, 



55 



AN AUTUMN HYMN. 

T^ROM jeweled censers rich and fair, 
•^ Swung low by breath of perfumed air, 
The flowers wet with morning dew 
Their incense raise, O Lord to you. 

The gorgeous clouds of light that lie 
Along the glowing western sky ; — 
The falling leafs most brilliant hue ; — 
Were painted. Lord of Light, by you. 

O Lord of Life, within our hearts 
The sense of all thy bounty starts ; 
With flowers, leaves, and sky, we too 
Would rai!5e, O Lord, our voice to you. 



56 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS, 



w 



FLOWERS. 



E send them to a child-friend : — send them 

still to one 

Whom years and sorrow have left bowed 
and lonely : 
To those with whom acquaintance has but just 
begun, 
And to our best and dearest, we send only — 
Flowers. 



We send them to a friend in luxury and need : 
We send them for the burial and the wed- 
'ding : — 
It is the same we send the living and the dead. 
We send to those who bitter tears are shed- 
ding,— 

Flowers. 

We send them to a lady friend before the ball : 
We send them to our relatives, — our lover : 



FLOWERS, 



S1 



And yet they say the very word we mean to all. 
What thoughts of grief, joy, sorrow, love, 
hang over 

Flowers ! 



58 SOJVGS FROM THE SEASONS, 



INSPIRATIONS. 

npELL me not the ancient prophets 
■*- Came of an extinguished line ; — 
That they left no true descendants 

Who are touched with flame divine. 

Many an unknown, unnamed singer 
Feels a spirit loose his tongue, — 

Feels the power within to utter 

Psalms and poems never sung. 

Woe to him who such inbreathings 

Deigns to slight, or dares neglect ; — 

Or, beneath the smouldering ashes, 
Fails the god-spark to detect. 

'Tis a message sent from Heaven, — 
You, a messenger, at best : 

Till his errand is delivered 

May no message-bearer rest. 



INSPIRATIONS, 59 

Listen to the heaven-sent message, 
Be you poet, painter, priest, — 

Mould it in your noblest image, 

Send it forth unscarred, at least. 

You may not the final reader 

Of your sealed dispatches know ; 

You may only catch a glimmer 
Of the Jove-sent fire's glow : 

But some heart is surely waiting 
Your dispatches to receive : — 

That your post Is worth a life-long 
Struggle, you may well believe. 



6o SONGS FROM THE SEASONS, 



A CLOUDY MORNING IN THE COUNTRY. 

A URORA leaves her early couch 
t^^^ And mounts the sky in haste, to vouch 
For Sol's returning light. 
Her crimson banners herald forth 
To denizens of heaven and earth 
The banishment of Night. 

The early w^ght whose weary eyes 
Behold her signals in the skies, 

And flaunting streamers gay. 
Would fain assay to prophesy 
(And give experience the lie) 

" A pleasant day to-day." 

But ere the day is well begun 

A cold, gray mist shuts out the sun, — 

The clouds are dark and blue. 
The farmer stands and looks around, — 
On mist and cloud and sky and ground 

In doubt what best to do. 



A CLOUDY MORNING. 61 

Dead leaves shake on the naked trees, 
And on the cheerless, chilly breeze 

Stray flakes go floating past. 
The air seems close, — the hours lag by, — 
A leaden pall shuts out the sky : — 

By noon 'tis snowing fast. 

9 



62 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS. 



THE ANGELUS BELL. 

T ISTEN, my soul ! 'tis the Angelus bell 
^-^ Dolefully, soulfully tolling its knell ; 
Tolling a knell for the dying day : — 
Calling to sinners to stop and pray, — 
Pray for forgiveness, and peace, and rest. 
Pray to the Mother of Christ, the Blest ; 
'-^ Ave Sanctissivia^ ora p7'o ?zobis^'' 
Now and when death is near, ^^ oi^a pro 
nobis, "^^ 

Think what a burden of sin and crime. 
Rolls from the world at the Angelus time. 
Up through the peaceful evening air. 
Floats into space, on the wings of pra3'er ! 
Think of the hearts and the heads bowed 

low, 
Touched by the tints of the sunset's glow : 
Think of the endless wave of prayer 
That rolls round the earth in the twilight 

air ! 



THE ANGELUS BELL. 63 

May it not be that the Saints above 
Pause and gaze earthward with looks of love, 
As up through the infinite depths of air 
Comes floating the incense of evening prayer, 
Laden with cares and sins forgiven ; — 
Promised pardon and hopes of Heaven, 
And the longing sighs that of old age tell ; 
And the far-away sound of the Angelus 
bell? 

Then pause, my soul, as the sun goes down 
On the fair, green fields and the busy town ; 
Pause and think of the day that is gone, — 
The words that are spoken, the deeds that 

are done, — 
Pause and pray for forgiveness and rest. 
And a home at last with the Mother Blest. 
For the day shall come when thine earthly 

ear. 
No longer the Angelus bell shall hear : 
But thou shalt rise on its tolling knell. 
Then listen ! my soul, to the Angelus bell ! 



64 SOiYGS FROM THE SEASONS. 



A BIRTHDAY WISH. 

MAY the stars that looked down on thy 
birthday, 
Grow bright as the autumns roll by : 
And adding each year still a new one, 

Like jew^els in crystals on high. 
Shine forth in a fair constellation 
To brighten thy life's evening sky. 



ODE, 65 



ODE 

FOR THE NIGHT BEFORE A BIRTHDAY. 

/^OME, brighten the fire, and fill up the 
^^-^ glasses ! 

Let us shorten the evening with laughter 
and song : 
Here's a health to Old Time, — let us drink 
as he passes. 
And wish him good luck as he hurries 
along. 

Another year's dead, then ; well, peace to 
its ashes ! 
May its bones be at rest with its ances- 
tors' dust. 
But why should I mourn, or a tear wet the 
lashes. 
That twelve months more are past? I 
am wiser, I trust. 



66 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS. 

Old Time's an old miser, with all of his 
treasures : 
'Tis but slowly he doles out our joys and 
our pains. 
On the whole, though, he's fair; — for all 
griefs there are pleasures, 
And he brings us no loss that has not its 
own gains. 

Though the year that is past has been full of 
lost chances, — 
Opportunities wasted, by night and by 
day,— 
Yet why should I follow its form with sad 
glances 
As it turns the last corner, and hurries 
away ? 

Let us laugh while youth lasts ; — time 
enough to be dreary 
When its flowers have faded, its leaves 
have grown brown ; 
Time enough to be sad when the heart has 
grown weary 
Of bearing the burden 'twould gladly lay 
down. 



ODE, 67 

Then brighten the fire, and fill up the glasses ! 
Let us drown all such thoughts with a 
laugh and a song : 
Here's a toast to Old Time, — let us 
drink as he passes, 
And hail the old chap as he shuffles 
along. 

I say, Father Time, — look alive, — turn your 
glass there : — 
The sand's all run out, — you'll get left 
some fine day ! 
I forgot : — ' ' Local Time," — not the ' ' Stand- 
ard " : — I pass : — there, 
I'm glad y 01^ keep on in the old-fashioned 
way. 

Well, well, time wags on ; and for one, I'm 
glad of it : — 
To be, all one's life, just so old, — what a 
bore ! 
Let them call back their childhood who can, 
and who love it, — 
/'7/i content that my mumps and my 
measles are o'er. 



68 SONGS FROM THE SEASONS, 

But, friends, it is late, and I see you are 
yawning : — 
The bell on the steeple, the clock on the 
wall. 
Say the evening is past, and day soon will 
be dawning. 
We must part, or we'll hear shrill old 
Chanticleer's call. 

Yes Time, it is said (and 'tis true), works 
great changes, — 
Weaves the world in the web of a magi- 
cal spell : — 
But there's none that's more queer than the 
trick where he ranges 
From one year to the next at the stroke 
of a bell. 

But once more by the fire let us fill up our 
glasses, — 
Join once more in the laugh, the familiar 
old song ! 
Here's the health of Old Time; — let us 
drink as he passes. 
And cheer his old bones as he hobbles 
along:. 



. ODE, 69 

And now, friends, good-night. Yes, I know 
your kind wishes. 
And I thank you for them from the depth 
of my heart : 
One true word of a friend is worth all of 
Love's kisses. 
Let us shake hands all round with a will, 
ere we part, — 

But no wishes to-night : let them wait till 
to-morrow ; 
They will be all the better, and, — hark ! 
what was that ? 
Yes, the bell tolling midnight. For joy or 
for sorrow 
Another year's come, like a silent winged 
bat. 

Pleasant dreams and sound sleep, and clear 
heads in the morning ; 
I must sit up a while, with my thoughts, 
ere I go. 
And make good resolves for the year that is 
dawning, 
Ere the daylight creeps In where the lire 
burns low. 



II 
OTHER y ERSES 



yUST A SOCIETT GIRL. 73 



JUST A SOCIETY GIRL. 

O HE is no simple village lass, 
^^ The maiden of my singing : 
No country town or rustic lane 
With praise of her is ringing. 

No wayside flower is she, that grows 
'Mid tangled leaves and grasses ; 

No blue-bell meek, or frail wild-rose, 
That he may pluck who passes. 

Let poets sing of rustic grace. 
Of simple lives and pleasures : — 

They who find gems in buttercups 
Are welcome to their treasures. 

They seem to think,- these poet-chaps, 
Who sing of flowing tresses. 

That all the maids worth singing of 
Are found in homespun dresses. 



74 OTHER VERSES, 

I sing of one whose life goes round 
Like one of her own glances, — 

A constant whirl of dinners, teas, 
Of flowers, bouquets and dances. 

A life made up of concerts, plays. 

Of satins, gloves and laces ; 
Of calls and cards, of parties, balls, 

And endless rows of faces. 

No knowledge of great Nature's laws 

This maid of inine professes : 
But, oh, the wealth of worldly lore 

Her woman's heart possesses ! 

She knows the power that money brings, — 
Its pride, its greed, its passion : 

She knows the folly and the good 
That rule the world of fashion. 

But though she knows what wealth can give,- 
Its pleasures and its sinning, — 

It only makes her seem more fair. 
And doubly worth the winning. 



yUST A SOCIETT GIRL, 75 

Then let them sing, these poet-fools, 

Their rustic maids and lasses : 
/'// sing my winter rose, that blooms 

Beneath the green-house glasses. 

But still I know this maid of mine, 

Whose praises I am ringing. 
May fail to smile on me at last 

To thank me for my singing. 

Too well, alas, may this be true ; 

Fair maids are ofttimes wary ; 
And Jacqueminots are not for him 

Who sings, in February. 

But still I yield the palm to none : 
'' Faint heart ne'er won fair lady ; " 

And if need be, I'll wait and sing 
Till youth has lost its heyday. 

And if, at last, perchance, the prize 

I lose, with all my striving, 
Still shall my praises of her ring, 

All fruitless hopes surviving. 



76 OTHER VERSES, 

And though this hot-house bud of mine 
Should not be for my wearing, 

Still will I dare to hope and be 
The better for the daring:. 



SAINT VALENTINE'S DAT, 77 



SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY. 

TN those chivalrous da3's, when the bold troub- 
^ adours 

Caught cold 'neath the windows of fair ladies' 

bowers ; 
When the knights-errant brave, w^ith long 

plumes in their caps, 
Suffered tumbles and bruises and other mis- 

• haps. 
To show their devotion, — and good clothes 

as well, — 
'Twas a deed for the ballads of minstrels to 

tell 
How Sir What's-his-name did his compli- 
ments pay 
Lady So-and-so fair, on Saint Valentine's day. 
But all that is past. In our commonplace time 
Ladies lauoh at the wiirht who indulircs in 

rhyme ; 
Serenades are old-fashioned, wearing plumes 

out of style. 



5 OTHER VERSES, 

And the last of the troubadours dead a long 

while. 
Only ballads and legends of such things re- 
main ; 
Yet ballads and legends are not all in vain, 
For if you'd a lady a compliment pay, 
You must send her a card on Saint Valentine's 
day. 



WITH A MS. BOOK. 79 



WITH A MS. BOOK. 

npHESE few little '' Songs from the Seasons," 

■*• I send you, fair cousin of mine, — 
Poor stray little rh3^mes without reasons, — 

In charge of Saint Valentine. 
They come from the land of the snow-drift. 

The east-wind, the frost and the sleet. 
Where the full moon looks down through the 
cloud-rift 
On the snow-covered house-tops and street : 

Where the trees in the forests are bending 

'Neath the weight of their burdens of 
snow ; 

Where the fast-frozen rivers are sending 

Their floods through the ice-caves below : — 

To you, in your bright Colorado, 

Where the valleys lie warm in the sun, — 
In your fair western new El Dorado, 

More rich than the old fabled one. 



So OTHER VERSES. 

And perhaps they may bring you some token 

From the land of your birth and your 
youth : — 

Some link in the chain that is broken, 

Some word you may feel as the truth. 

Perhaps you may catch some faint shimmer 

Of those bright summer skies over head, 

Whose lights on the fair lake still glimmer. 

Though the lilies we pulled may be dead. 

Though, perchance, they may hold no rich • 
treasures 

Of wisdom, I trust there may lie, 
Somewhere in my poor little measures — 

(^How poor none can know better than I) , 

Some thought that is true the world over : 
For, whatever, its fashion or name. 

The thought that is dear to the lover, 
Is always and ever the same. 

Accept, then, these -'Songs from the Sea- 
sons," 

O fair Western cousin of mine ; 
And ask not for rhythm or reasons 

In the month of Saint Valentine. 



LOST rOUTH. Si 



LOST YOUTH. 

TN sunny Rockport by the sea 

-■■ The world looked bright to you and me, 
In that first summer, long ago, 
When one delicious mellow glow, — 

Which you and I may find no more, — 

Bathed rocks and mountains, sea and shore : 
And Youth was Now to you and me 
In sunny Rockport by the sea. 

Fair hillside Rockport by the sea ! 

Familiar are its rocks to me : 

Familiar are its mountain sides. 
Its ebbing and its flowing tides : 

And every rock and tree we knew 

Brings thronging memories filled with you, — 
What might have been for you and me 
In hillside Rockport by the sea. 

The days have come, the days have gone. 
While I have wandered here alone : 



82 OTHER VERSES, 

And Youth, and Hope, and Joy, and you. 
Seem but as things I never knew. 
For all the brightening mist has fled. 
And all the hopes of Youth are dead. 
And life looks stern to you and me, 
In rugged Rockport by the sea. 



EVENING ON THE HARBOR. 



EVENING ON THE HARBOR. 

A S I drift in my boat on the harbor, 
^^^ In the calm of the summer night, 
The moon in the arms of the crescent 
Floods all with its misty light. 

The water reflects the moonbeams 

In a wavy, twisted band. 
Like a mirror of polished metal 

From some distant Eastern land. 

No sound but the click of a rowlock. 
And the measured dip of an oar. 

And the lisping plash of the ripples, 

As they break on the western shore. 

The lights in the hillside village 
Are fading into the night ; 

But a kiln, with its flaming furnace. 
Gleams out with a ruddy light. 



84 OTHER VERSES. 

The ships' great forms around me 
Are grim as the jaws of death, 

And the gray masts rise like spectres 

That would vanish away at a breath. 

The w^ater is smooth and glassy, — 

Its spirit is hushed to rest ; 
And 'tis only the swell from the ocean 

That tells of its heaving breast. 

O, would that each toiling mortal 

Could feel the calm and rest 
That comes with the evening stillness 

To the ocean's troubled breast : — 

Could feel that the noise and toiling. 

All day, in the busy town. 
Is only the breeze from the ocean, 

And will cease when the sun goes down. 

And the waves that are ever tossing, — 

The foam and the plashes of strife, — 

Grow calm, and only the surges 

Roll in from the Ocean of Life. 



BABY'S SOCKS. 85 



BABY'S SOCKS. 

^1 THAT can I say of the Baby's socks? 
* ^ Poets may sing about golden locks, 
Sparkling eyes and rosy lips, 
Soft white hands and finger-tips. 

But whoever wrote of a baby's socks ! 

Qiieer little bag of w^hite and blue, — 
Who would have thought it was meant 
for a shoe ? 

(I never should, I am sure, should you, 
If it hadn't been that there were two ?) 

By and by, when the baby walks, 

She'll need something stouter than 
worsted socks. 
For she'll find that the road is full of rocks. 
And she'll wish, sometimes, I am will- 
ing to bet. 
She were back in her babyhood's stock- 
ings yet ; — 



86 OTHER VERSES, 

Back in her mother's arms once more, 
Kicking her feet on the the carpeted floor. 

For by and by, as the years roll on, 
And babyhood's socks are long outgrown, 
And she goes out in the world alone. 
She'll find it isn't so easy to walk 
By half as you'd think to hear some 
folks talk. 

For the path is rough, and the road is 

long. 
And its aw^fully hard to tell right from 
wrong. 
But if she will only try to keep 
Where she thinks is right, though the 
road is steep 
She'll find that at last it will lead her out 
Where the way is plain, and she need not 
doubt. 



EASTER DAT. 87 



EASTER DAY. 

"1 1 7HEN the sun is bright and fair, 
* * And the sunshine fills the air : 
When the gentle breath of Spring 
Does the yellow crocus bring, 
Peeping through the melting snow, 
From its winter bed below : 
When the skies above seem glad, 
And no earthly thing is sad, 
But the whole world's blithe and gay, — 
Then, you know, 'tis Easter Day. 

When each face with smiles is decked, 
When the colors bright reflect 
All the tints the rainbow knows : 
When each heart with joy overflows. 
And each passer on the street, 
Pausing, stops, his friend to greet : 
When the church is decked with flowers, - 
Font and altar fairy bowers : — 



88 OTHER VERSES. 

When the glad chime's joyous note 
Swelling through the air doth float, 
To all men it seems to say, 
'' This, you know, is Easter Day." 

When the Saviour, long ago. 
In the tomb was lying low, 
Then an Angel, bright as day, 
Rolled the sealed stone away. 
This is why the world is glad. 
Why no mortal can be sad. 
Why the crocus lifts its head ; 
For the Saviour, from the dead, 
On that ever blessed morn. 
In the early coming dawn. 
When the light was cold and gray,- 
Rose, you know, on Easter Day. 



CARDS. 89 



CARDS. 

WE have cards for a wedding, and cards for 
a call, 
For Christmas, and New Year's, and Easter, 

and all : 
We have cards for a birthday, and cards for 

a prize ; 
We have cards every shape, every color and 

size : 
Our pious friends give us a lecture and say 
''Never play games at cards, — you will rue it 

some day ; '' 
And while with their preaching w^e're still 

feeling vexed 
They turn round and give us a cai'd^ with 

a text ! 
We have cards in the mail, — they come 

thicker than showxrs ; 
And when we arc sending a young lady 

flowers 



90 OTHER VERSES. 

'Tis a card we put in, to express our re- 
gards : — 

I 'faith, is this world made of nothing but 
cards ? 



ECHO, 91 



ECHO. 

A PRETTY maiden that I know 
-^^^ Was telling Echo 'bout her beau. 
"He calls my nose a pug," she said, 
"And says my hair is almost red ; 
Now, don't you think he's rather dainty?" 
Familiar Echo answers, "Ain't he?" 

" I don't believe he cares for me 
As much as Rover does," said she ; 
"If I should fall into the sea. 
How far, to save me, think, would he 
Rush boldly through the briny deep?" 
Sarcastic Echo says, "Knee deep ! " 

"But tell me, Echo, what to do ; 

I couldn't send him off, could you ? 

1 rather guess I'll let him come, 

And make him think I love him so7Jic. 

I'll not be very unjust so." 

And Echo acquiesced, "Just so !" 



92 OTHER VERSES. 



NO GO. 

A H, my pretty, dainty Martha, 
^^•^ Don't you know I love you, say? 
Will you let me come a-wooing? 
Pretty Martha answered, Nay. 

Would you like to have me leave you, 
Go and leave you all the day, 

Go and woo some other maiden ? 
Pretty Martha answered. Yea. 

But if I should stay and love you. 
Come and woo you all the day, 

Don't you think you'd take your lover ?- 
Pretty Martha walked away. 



A REMEMBRANCE. 93 



A REMEMBRANCE. 

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SENT TO A YOUNG 
LADY. 

A S each Autumn's breath the same colors 
-^~^ Brings back to the leaves on the trees, 
Though the leaves are not really the same ones 
That fluttered in last Autumn's breeze ; 

So to me the chill winds of November, 
As they whistle and whirl in the street, 

Bring a thought of the daintiest maiden 
It was e'er my good fortune to meet. 

We met in the drear, early winter ; 

She was gone while the snow was still white ; 
But she left in my memory a picture , 

That will ever be charming and bright. 

If you chance, anywhere in your wanderings, 
To meet with the maiden, my friend, 



94 OTHER VERSES, 

Please wish her the season's best wishes, — 
Good things and good luck without end. 

VERSE FOUND ADDED ON THE AUTHOR'S MAN- 
USCRIPT. 

Try it again, and perhaps you'll do better ; 

Cut it down to one verse ; 
Try it again, and perhaps you'll do better. 

You couldn't do worse. 



REMEMBRANCES, 95 



REMEMBRANCES. 

T LITTLE did think, fair Jennie, 
^ That morn when we met by the lake. 
Of the lasting place, through years to come, 
That you in my thoughts would take. 

And little I thought, fair Jennie, 
That day by the murmuring brook. 

That I should for years remember 
Each motion and word and look. 

And little we thought, fair Jennie, 

When we climbed on the mountain's side, 

How often would forest and mountain 
Be mirrored in memory's tide. 

I little did think, fair Jennie, 

In the gloam of twilight air. 
By the porch where the woodbine was growing, 

How long I should linger there. 



96 OTHER VERSES, 

But the lake, and the brook, and the mountain, 
Have never since then been the same, 

And still in the gloam of the twilight, 
My heart is repeating your name. 



WHTP 97 



WHY? 

^1 7HY is it that whene'er I meet, 
^ ^ Whene'er I pass upon the street, 
One dainty maiden that I know, 
My little wits desert me so ? ^ 

Is it the dimple in her cheek 
That holds me so I cannot speak ? 
Is it her ribbon, or her pin. 
That prickles so, my heart within? 

Is it some one, or all of these, 
That doth my 'wildered senses tease, 
So that I know not what to do ? 
O dear ! I cannot tell ; can you ? 



98 OTHER VERSES, 



IVY ODE. 

TO THE CLASS OF '85, BATES COLLEGE, 
JUNE II, 1884. 

13 ICH, glossy and bright are the Ivy's green 
-^^ leaves, 

And its branches are rugged and strong ; 
Firm, tw^isted and strong is the web that it v^eaves 

As its climbers creep slow^ly along. 

It clings to the last, w^here its roots have once 
been, 

And age but enriches and deepens its green. 



Rich, glovs^ing and bright is a strong friendship 
true. 
And its grasp is as lasting as steel. 
Its words weave their meshes around all we do. 
As the years from our life's spool unreel. 
And firmly it clings with its strong youthful 
hold. 



IVr ODE. 99 

While age but enriches its bright burnished 
gold. 

Then bury our Ivy's roots deep in the earth, 

Let us cherish each shoot as it twines, 
For the Ivy shall symbol our friendship's true 
w^orth. 
As its roots in our hearts its entw^ines, 
And higher and higher its branches shall go, 
While years in our friendship no changes 
shall know. 



loo OTHER VERSES, 



FETTERS. 

'T^ELL me not of fetters 
-■- For a maiden's hand ; 
But a toy to her is 

Every golden band. 
Tell me not of fetters 

For a maiden's heart ; 
Like a broken bow-string, 

Vows she snaps apart. 

Once I wooed a maiden, — 

Wooed her with a zeal 
Full of love and passion, 

Naught but youth can feel. 
And she met my wooing 

With a heart of love, 
Fervent as a mother's. 

Pure as heaven above. 

On a maiden's finger 
Once I slipped a ring. 



FETTERS. 

Set with pearl and turquoise, 

Airy, fragile thing ! 
Pearls and azure turquoise. 

Like a summer sky : — 
Firmer than our love, that 

We thought ne'er could die ! 

Then I locked a bracelet 

Round her willing wrist ; 
And we locked on with it 

Lovers' vows, I wist. 
But the golden fetter 

Proved as light as air. 
No more held the maiden 

Than a silken hair. 



Then I round her finger. 

E'er so hard to hold. 
Placed a narrow circlet 

Of plain, yellow gold. 
Sealed it with a diamond's 

Flashing rays of light : — 
Still the jewel glistens 

Than our love more bright. 



102 OTHER VERSES, 

Let them lie and tarnish 

In their velvet case ! 
Bound will I be never 

To a pretty face. 
Let the vows be buried 

Deeply in my heart ; 
And when I forget them, 

Sting me with their smart. 



SWEET CAP ORAL. 



103 



"SWEET CAPORAL." 

■\ 1 7HEN all the world seems out of rhyme, 
^ ^ The idle day but wasted time, 
The evening like a farce played out ; 
While in my mind crowds many a doubt ; 
When disappointments fill the air ; 
When friends prove false and maids unfair ; 
When love affairs look dark and blue. 
And unpaid tailors' bills come due : — 
Then, then, my cigarette I light. 
And all my troubles take their flight. 
And, as its glowing end I watch. 
Like some red, sympathetic torch, 
Responsive to my every mood. 
To lighten my disquietude ; 
The clouds roll by, the moon sails out. 
And banishes all shade and doubt. 
So, in my mind doubt clears away. 
And calmer thoughts and words hold sway. 
And as the fragrant smoke ascends, 
And with the evening stillness blends, 



I04 OTHER VERSES, 

A burden seems to roll away, — 

The cares and trials of the day. 

Then all the world again looks bright, 

And unpaid tailors' bills seem light 

As ashes from my cigarette, 

And I forget that I'm in debt. 

While love affairs look bright once more. 

Which but a little while before 

Had seemed so dark and squally. 
So, in my hammock here I lie. 
Beneath the pale blue moonlit sky.^ 

And bless Sir Walter Raleigh. 



A PUFF OF SMOKE, 105 



A PUFF OF SMOKE. 

^y^THEN the world seems all a blur 

^ ^ And grim thoughts crowd thick around ; 
When Youth's dead hopes thickly fall 

As the leaves on Autumn's ground, 
Past griefs flit before me : — Whew ! 

Clouds of fragrant smoke hide all. 

Out of doors one dismal blur, 

Fog clings to the dripping pane. 
But within my study bright. 

Thicker than the fog or rain 
Float the fragrant smoke clouds : — Whew ! 

Hiding all the world from sight ! 

Has the great world's deafening whir 
Turned me from walks with books ^ 

Disappointments filled the day.? 
Do some fair one's scornful looks 

Rankle in my mind still ? — Whew ! 

• Thus I blow them all away. 



io6 OTHER VERSES, 

Am I sad with thought of her^ 
Loved and lost for many a day, — 

Thoughts of all that might have been ? 
Like a spectre, gaunt and gray, 

Does her vision haunt me? — Whevv^ ! 
One good puff hides all the scene. 

Do I feel my pulses stir 

To be mingling in the strife, 

'Neath the banner's stripes unfurled, — 
Seek for broader fields of life. 

Seek a chance for action? — Whew ! 
In that cloud floats all the world. 



THE SEASONS. 107 



THE SEASONS. 

SPRING. 

BREEZE, 
Trees, 
Freeze, 
Sneeze ; 
A youth and maiden off a-Maying. 

SUMMER. 

A lake, 
A snake, 
Sun-bake, 
Head-ache ; 
Big hotel bills papas are paying. 

AUTUMN. 

Twinkling stars, 
Rustic bars. 
Shrewd mammas ; 
"Ask papa's 
Consent," some pretty lips are saying* 



io8 OTHER VERSES. 

WINTER. 

A crowded hall, 
A fancy ball, 
A stupid call. 
And— that is all ! 
The same old game they all are playing. 



THE POET AND THE SINGER. 109 



THE POET AND THE SINGER. 

O HE sang that night in the party's whirl, 
^ 'Neath the glare of the chandelier, 
And the poet he listened with all his might, 
And held his breath to hear. 

His rival he stood on her right hand, 

With that graceful pose he had. 
And he turned her page with a negligent air 

That drove the poor poet mad. 

And they sang together, as they stood there. 

In the glare of the chandelier ; 
And the poet he fretted and fumed and fussed, 

But he could not choose but hear. 

And he said to himself, " That song she sings 

Is as old as the art of rhymes. 
And every dabbler who sings at all 

Has sung it an hundred times. 

IS 

/ 



no OTHER VERSES. 

She ought not to be singing those worn-out songs 
That were here when the Mastodons were ; 

The song that she sings should be like her dress, 
And suited alone for her." 

And he said to himself, ''I will write her a song. 
This night, when the party is o'er. 

That she shall sing for the very first time 
As never she sang before." 

So the poet went home to his room that night, 
When the hum of the party was o'er. 

And he wrote a song that was better far 
Than he ever had written before : 

A song of love, and a warrior bold. 
And a maiden who loved a knight, 

A knight who vanquished his rival's lance 
In the midst of the thickest of the fight. 

And he set the words to an old faint air 
That the troubadour's strings had rung, 

That had laid for hundreds of years at least 
In its parchment roll, unsung. 



THE POET AND THE SINGER. iii 

And he said, "She will sing my song to-night, 

In the glare of the chandelier, 
And the people will murmur their praise of the 
song, 

And my rival he needs must hear." 

But w^hen she sung his song that night. 

In the glare of the chandelier, 
His rival he stood on her right hand, 

And the poet could not but hear. 

And they sang together that song of his. 

That he had written for her, 
And he wished it was buried beneath the sea, 

And as dead as the Mastodons were. 

And the people they murmured their soft, low 
praise, 

When the song and singers were through. 
And some, they murmured the poet's name. 

That to him there were praises due. 

But mostly they praised the singers' skill. 
As they stood 'neath the chandelier. 

And his rival, he smiled with a broad, bland 
smile, 
And the poet could not but hear, 



112 OTHER VERSES. 

But when he complained to her that she 
Had not sung him his song alone, 

She only laughed and said, ''Oh, well, 
It was better for two than one." 

He said it was written for her to sing. 

For her, and for her alone, 
And he wanted no lips to utter the words, 

But only hers and his own. 

But she only laughed and shook her head. 

And said, as she turned to go, 
With a voice like the sound of a silver bell, 

" You couldn't have sung it, you know ! " 

'' He could not have written it, either," he cried, 
But she laughed, like a silver bell, 

"It doesn't much matter who writes the song," 
She said, "If it's only sung well." 



The poet went home to his room that night. 
And vowed he would write no more, 

For his song had but bettered his rival's case, 
And made his own worse than before. 



THE POET AND THE SINGER. 113 

The moral is plain. If you want in this world 

To help your own cause along, 
Don't try to furnish the brains, but learn 

To sing some one else's song. 



114 . OTHER VERSES, 



LIFE'S DAY. 

]\ /rORNING dawns ; the earth is»bright, 
IVX \yith the sun's returning light, 
And his golden, broadened ray 
Cheers the land throughout the day ; 
Till, as twilight fills the air 
With its mystery soft and fair. 
Magic-like, the moonlight's ray 
Turns the earth to silver-gray. 

So, in youth, the cheek is red. 
Sunshine nestles on the head ; 
While, though life's long working day. 
Light and shade alternate stray. 
Till old age, with creeping pace. 
Draws its lines upon the face ; 
Then some unseen magic ray 
Turns the hair to silver-gray. 



COLORS. 



115 



COLORS. 

TONIGHTS of old, in bloody fray, 
J- V Wore fair ladies' colors gay ; 
And to keep them from the dust, 
Gave full many a well-aimed thrust. 

Women still may color give 

To the age in w^hich they live ; 

To men's thoughts and acts give tone, 

By the tenor of their own. 



ii6 OTHER VERSES, 



CHIVALRY. 

r^ O search through History's pages bright 
^-^ For valiant feat of armed knight, 
Read all her storied annals hold, 
Of warlike deeds of men of old. 
Whose light still down the ages shines. 
But could you read between the lines, 
In all the list you'd find not one 
That was not for some w^oman done. 



/ WONDER. 117 



I WONDER. 

T WONDER if she guesses It, 
^ My little lady fine ; 
Her picture ne'er expresses it, 
This photograph of mine. 

She sits up there and looks at me, 

Upon the mantel high, 
( Meanwhile chum's throwing books at me. 

Because I don't reply.) 

She little knows what vows I make 

Before this shrine of her's. 
And could she see the bows I make. 

She call me mad, or worse. 

I wonder if she dreams of it. 

If ever, through her mind. 
Go floating stray, faint gleams of it, 

Like straws that show the wind. 



• 

ii8 OTHER VERSES. 



I sing my little songs to her, 
Poor, witty, long, or terse : 

Each trifle that belongs to her 
I weave into my verse. 

She takes them all so prettily, 
I think she must have guessed ; 

Then turns them off as wittily 
As though 'twere all in jest. 

I wonder if she heeds them all, 

And if she half divines 
The meanings, as she reads them all, 

I write between the lines. 

Would she accept — refuse it all 
If she should guess, who knows? 

And would I gain, or lose it all. 
If I should speak in prose ? 



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